


When The Fox Hears The Rabbit Scream

by cheshire_carroll



Series: A More Refined Butcher [3]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic, Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abigail Hobbs Lives, Butcher Neil Josten, Cannibalism, Dark Neil Josten, Hannibal is his own warning, Murder, Murder Family, Past Abuse, Serial Killer Neil Josten
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-08-19 18:08:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16539560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshire_carroll/pseuds/cheshire_carroll
Summary: “When the fox hears the rabbit scream, he comes a-runnin', but not to help”The Butcher of Baltimore’s son was always terrified; Hannibal Lecter’s son is not. Both were, are and always will be survivors at their core, but there is a stark difference between them— Nathaniel Wesninski was the child of a murderer, but Mischa Lecter is a murderer. A new name doesn’t change that.Or: a disempathetic sociopath is a type of sociopath able to feel an emotional connection to a restricted group of people, a group that may include friends, pets or family members, but regards people outside of the group as objects. Neil Josten joined the Foxes to get back at his father. Somehow, he ended up getting attached, and when the Moriyama Yakuza started making trouble, well, that’s just rude. The Lecters have one response to rudeness.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Relationships pending, I haven't decided on the final pairings yet <3  
> Enjoy!

****“ _ **When the Fox hears the Rabbit scream** he comes a-_runnin _', but not to help_.” **― Hannibal**  Lecter** **

 

****I.** **

Hannibal has never regretted Nathaniel Wesninski. He tries not to have regrets in general, but Nathaniel is something— some _one_ — he will always be proud of. He sees Nathaniel, sees _Mischa_ , as a bright child who he helped transform into something brilliant; a victim who didn't just become a survivor, but became something more, something _better_ — Mischa had emerged from the chrysalis a more perfect monster then even Hannibal could have ever predicted.

He has never regretted Nathaniel, _Mischa_ , and even as Mischa stretches his wings, taking tentative steps into adulthood and independence (and rebellion), he just feels the pride of a parent who knows they’ve raised their child well, raised them capable of facing the wide, wild world, raised them, him, capable of conquering it, if that’s what Mischa so chooses.

He doesn’t regret the person he has helped groom Mischa to be, but he does regret that he passed on just a tad too much of himself to his son in all but blood, particularly his propensity for holding grudges— and exacting a very pointed, well-designed revenge. He taught Mischa to hunt, to find the vulnerabilities present in every animal, human or otherwise, and to aim straight for them. He taught his son how to kill with speed, precision, and expediency, but he also taught him how to draw it out, how to make it hurt, how to _punish_. Having those skills, that sadism, turned back on him, well, if he’s to be honest with himself (something he does aim to be) he doesn’t blame Mischa.

Mischa thinks he betrayed him, betrayed their family. Hannibal can privately admit that perhaps Mischa isn’t wrong to think so. He was careless in his obsession with Will Graham. He still doesn’t believe he was wrong to pursue the agent, there is a beautiful monster lurking under his dear Will’s skin still waiting to be set free, but he was… _reckless_ , in his manner of pursuit. He got cocky, got careless, just like he'd always warned Mischa against. And thus, he was caught, ripping their family apart.

Hannibal thinks he could love Will, the potential is there. Hannibal _knows_ , however, that he does love Mischa, in as much as he is capable of such things. He wasn’t expecting it, didn’t ever expect to love anyone after his sister's murder— he hadn’t even managed to love Murusaki, for all that she had been to him. He did, _does_ , love Mischa, though. Mischa is his son, his protegee, his partner, his _legacy..._ Hannibal walks around this world disguised as one of its people, but he is irrevocably set apart from them in every way that matters; Mischa is his one and only connection to humanity, and should anything ever happen to _Mischa—_

( _love-grief-anger-fear-regret-pain_ )

—Hannibal honestly doesn’t know what he’d do, should he lose that last tether to the man within the monster, but he does know that nobody, not Abigail, not even Will, would be capable of healing that sort of damage— and only death would stop the carnage he'd leave in his wake as he turned the Earth to blood and ashes then salted what remained.

Hannibal has never regretted Nathaniel Wesninski, but if anything ever happens to his boy then the entire world will regret that he ever even heard the name.

———

Airports are too much of a pain to deal with, especially with pets, plus Neil actually likes his car— it’s a grey Honda Civic, the most ordinary, nondescript, unexceptional, common, neutral car available at the lot he’d bought it from. It’s clean, still has that new car smell he actually likes due to the fact he’s used it so sparingly, preferring to jog in the fucking tiny Millport, and he doesn’t want to leave it behind to get on a plane, so he'd rung Wymack several days ago to inform the coach he’d be driving to Palmetto instead.

It’s a thirty hour drive, nearly 2,000 miles, but Neil doesn’t balk at the distance. He splits it into three days of travel, leaving on May 12th and spending two nights at motels, sneaking Winston in and then out again to go for a run to stretch both their legs. There’s a real sense of freedom, to being on the road with his phone turned off and the GPS in his car purposefully deactivated. He’s confident that he’s not been tracked, even searched his car over for any transmitters, and it’s the first time he’s really felt like he could breathe since Kassmeyer and the other Marshals set him up in Millport.

As he jogs through the dark streets of the anonymous towns he stops in, his eyes linger over the people he passes by, mostly young adults who’ve been spending the evenings of their weekend drinking with friends. It’s been _so fucking long_ since he’s hunted, so long since he's experienced the ultimate thrill of holding the power of life and death in his hands— he’s had so little control over his life since Hannibal was revealed, has experienced such continued powerlessness under the close scrutiny of law enforcement, that the urge to kill is stronger than it’s been since that time the Lola Malcolm-lookalike shoved passed him in the parking lot of a supermarket, three years ago now.

Neil was raised in loving tribute to the thrill of the hunt, christened in spilled blood and cracked bones and carved meat; it’s an intrinsic part of him, a soul-deep yearning that constantly  _salivates_ to be satisfied, and it’s only the control he was taught, the control at the core of all Hannibal’s teachings and guiding (and manipulations), that holds him back. His father was a very smart monster, and he taught Neil to be smart too. Impulsive kills were sloppy, they were stupid; impulsive kills got people caught even faster than fucking around with the FBI did. And so Neil lets his eyes track the prey around him but keeps moving forwards, jogging onwards and eventually returning to the motels, to scratchy sheets, bland carpeting and too-bright walls.

He and Winston arrive at the address Wymack provided him with late in the afternoon on May 15th, managing to find a parking space in the mostly full parking lot outside the apartment complex he'll be staying in until the school year begins. ‘Officially’, he’s arrived early at Palmetto for conditional early practice, which honestly won’t go amiss, but truthfully, it’s because he doesn’t have anywhere else to go, anywhere else he belongs. He had no reason to linger in Millport after graduating, and while spending time driving around America in some sort of pre-college road trip could have been fun, he doesn’t think the Marshals would have looked too kindly on it.

At least packing up everything into the car wasn’t difficult; he doesn’t have many belongings, not accessible ones at least—the house he grew up in had been considered a crime scene when he was moved to Millport, and although Will has passed on some of his possessions to the Marshals for them to send to him, Neil hasn’t returned to his house, his _home_ , since the brief, supervised visit where he was allowed to pack his clothes and some personal items, all of which he had to hand over to be vetted first.

At least his clothes held memories for him; his father was always very particular about his wardrobe, about how he represented himself—

( _“The only fashion statements you ever make scream ‘help me’,” Hannibal says in true despair as his horrified gaze passes over Mischa’s newly purchased ‘jorts’. Mischa laughs, lifting his arms and spinning around to show the jorts off to his tėvas, who blanches in apparent pain and hastily reaches for his cell phone in order to dial their tailor and book an emergency appointment_ )

—and he remembers visiting his father’s favorite tailor, old, grumpy Madam Olivier, with a fondness most boys his age likely wouldn’t. It was proof, he always saw it, that Hannibal cared— oh Nathan Wesninski always made sure his young son was well put-together, always threw enough money at people to make it happen, but Hannibal used to argue with Madam Olivier about cuts and patterns and colors that would suit his son, always including Mischa in the conversation, always encouraging him to speak up too and make his opinions known (and then he and Madam Olivier would proceed to completely bulldoze over said opinions, but _still_ ). Like Nathan, Hannibal cared that Mischa looked good and dressed himself well, but unlike Nathan, Hannibal had included Mischa in the process, had made sure to hear his opinions, had been invested, had cared that he was happy.

Neil’s favorite suit had a wealth of history behind it that the Marshals would never know or understand, and they hadn’t refused it like they’d refused the family photo albums, like they'd refused nearly everything that had meaning to him. Now his clothes make up most of his belongings, plus the collection of burner phones, all of Winston’s things, and a few keepsakes, mostly books but he did also ask Will to send the graphite sketch of Nikolai Ge’s _Achilles Lamenting the Death of Patroclus_ from where it had been hanging in the hall, which he now kept rolled up in a cardboard packing tube and stashed with his socks. He suspects Will had known that his father had drawn it, but he’d passed it on to the Marshals for him anyway.

Will is a good man. A good man with his own darkness, a familiar darkness, and Neil wonders what would have happened if his father hadn’t been so intent on _pushing_ — if he had just waited, would Will have given into the darkness without his aid?

( _Why didn’t he just wait? Why did he have to push? A patient predator was the most successful predator, when did he forget that?_ )

Winston whines, shoving his nose in Neil’s face and jolting him from his troubled thoughts. Scratching behind Winston’s ears in thanks, Neil takes a deep breath and texts Wymack with the news of his arrival before stepping out of the car, Winston eagerly bounding out after him. He stretches his stiff legs while waiting for Wymack, keeping an eye on Winston who bolts over to urinate on a rather scraggly looking weed stubbornly pushing its way through the cracks in the asphalt of the parking lot.

Wymack only takes a few minutes to arrive and he looks practically identical to the last two times Neil’s seen him, in jeans and a faded t-shirt, sleeves of tattoos on full display, looking nothing like a university coach and entirely like some kind of garage band rocker. Winston darts back over to Neil when he notices Wymack's approach, bristling slightly, a warning growl rumbling in his chest. “Easy boy,” Neil murmurs, stroking the dog’s head, “this is our new roommate.”

“He’s not going to attack me, is he?” Wymack asks warily. Winston eyes him back, just as warily, though he’s stopped growling.

“Only if you attack me,” Neil tells him, rubbing Winston’s ears.

“Protective,” Wymack mutters.

“Very,” Neil agrees, trusting that Winston’s not going to wander off (or attack Wymack) as he turns to his car, opening the trunk so Wymack can help him bring his things inside. He decides to leave the garment bags in the Honda, he won’t need any of the suits, had only worn one once in all the time he spent in Millport and that was for graduation, but he hands Wymack the two carry bags filled with Winston’s things and wheels the suitcase along himself as he follows his new coach into the apartment complex and over to the elevator, Winston trotting obediently after him.

Wymack’s apartment is on the seventh floor, number 742, and Neil watches as Wymack juggles both carry bags onto one tattooed arm in order to unlock the front door before following the older man inside, pausing for a moment in the threshold.

The coach's apartment looks nothing like his home. Not the unit in Millport, that was as temporary as the motel rooms, but the house in Baltimore, so carefully decorated in order to impress and intimidate with his father’s perverse, dark humour evident in the uncomfortable art people had assumed was intended as a display of wealth, but was really just meant to send shivers down spines and make people unsettled. Hannibal had taken great pride in their home, and Neil had learned to too. It had always been so clean, so orderly, a tribute to art and knowledge with nothing ever out of place, the floors always gleaming, the walls spotless…

Wymack’s apartment is nearly its opposite; the doorway opens to a living room where the couch that Neil assumes he’s meant to sleep on is the only clean(ish) surface visible, everything else covered in paperwork, empty coffee mugs, and overflowing ashtrays, the floorboards covered in scuff marks and smudges of dried mud, and the windows covered in a layer of dust. “Dump your stuff next to the couch and I’ll give you a tour,” Wymack tells him, before stomping onwards, further into the apartment.

Neil does as the coach says, Winston at his heels, then follows after Wymack to the kitchen, where the man is shoving the carry bags with Winston’s things under the sink. His father’s kitchen had been Hannibal's pride and joy; Neil had practically grown up in it, with its combination of futuristic, gleaming stainless-steel food prep surfaces, the antique wood of the butcher’s block, and the travertine countertops. It was one of his favourite rooms in the house, where his father created masterpieces nobody but he could really appreciate, and Wymack’s kitchen seems almost disrespectful in comparison and he’s only too eager to be shown along to the next room— not that there's much to look at. A bathroom sits opposite to the kitchen, and the bedrooms are at the end of the hall. Wymack’s converted the second bedroom into an office which is covered with newspaper articles, team photos, outdated calendars, and miscellaneous certificates. Two bookshelves line the wall, one full of Exy books, the other a mishmash of everything from travel guides to classic literature—the only tasteful part of the house. Wymack's desk is buried in paperwork, not an inch of wood visible, and Neil's file is on top. Holding down one corner is a hefty prescription bottle— Neil recognises the name of the drug, codeine, as a painkiller.

“Really?” he asks, not hiding his judgment as he gestures at the bottle. “You’re leaving that out when your team has known ex-drug addicts?”

“I trust my team,” Wymack tells him, actually sounding like he believes it, and Neil rolls his eyes.

“A bleeding heart is of no help to anyone if it bleeds to death,” he informs the coach, who actually chuckles.

“Not bad— who said that?” he asks.

“Frederick Buechner— my father was occasionally interested in his novels, despite the religious overtones," Neil admits.

“Not fond of religion, your father?” Wymack asks, with an admirable calm considering they both know just who Neil’s father is. Neil is actually impressed by his new coach’s composure.

“Oh, my father thinks God’s great,” he says dryly. “After all, killing people must feel good to God too, considering he does it all the time, and aren’t we all created in his image?”

“Fucking hell, kid,” Wymack looks like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or not. “Is that a direct quote?”

“Pretty much,” Neil confirms, smiling slightly. “My father had lots of opinions, and he wasn’t shy about sharing them. And he rarely made the effort to make those opinions _palatable_ in the safety of our walls.”

Wymack looks amused by the pun. Will had worn a similar expression, the first time, then an annoyed one as he undoubtedly reflected back on his interactions with Hannibal and realised the propensity for bad puns was something passed down from father to son.

“In the end, though, typhoid and swans, it all comes from the same place.” Neil finishes his previous explanation with a slight accompanying shrug. 

“Renee’s going to love meeting you,” Wymack informs him, clearly amused.

“I can’t wait,” Neil replies, not hiding the sarcasm. Abigail is so far a singularity when it comes to people his age, or close, that he can actually stand. Socialising with his new teammates is not something he's looking forward to.

“In that case, I’m sure you’ll be delighted to know that Abby’s invited us over for dinner tonight so you'll get the chance to meet Aaron and Nicky, as well as see Kevin and Andrew again,” the older man says, still far-too amused, and Neil winces.

“Do I have to?”

“Kevin already wanted you to start training today, he’d planned a whole session for after you arrived,” Wymack says dryly. “Be grateful I got you out of that, at least.”

“Fine. But I’m bringing Winston,” Neil mutters sourly.

“Speaking of, how are you planning on keeping that dog when you’re living on campus?” Wymack asks, shooting Winston a wary look. He'd agreed to letting Winston live with them over the break when Neil had rung him, though he's clearly not thrilled by the extra guest.

“Hopefully his owner will be back from Europe by the time university starts,” Neil says, grimacing slightly. “Otherwise I’ll get him to ask his friend to send some therapy dog registration papers for me.”

Wymack’s eyebrows rise slightly at that, but he doesn’t comment. “Well, make yourself at home, we’re leaving for Abby's at seven.” He says. “If you’ve got any questions—?” he trails off meaningfully, but Neil just shakes his head and Wymack nods his acceptance, reaching into the pocket of his jeans and pulling out a set of keys that he tosses Neil’s way and Neil easily snags out of the air. “Long key is for when the front gate closes at night. Small one gets you into the apartment. The others are for the stadium: outer door, gear room, and court doors. I’ll show you which is which when we visit tomorrow. I’m expecting you to get a lot of use out of them.”

“Thanks,” Neil says quietly as he looks down at the two rings looped together, two keys on one and three on the other, and Wymack just nods again before sitting down at the desk, moving Neil’s folder to the side to pick up the one underneath it. Neil recognises the unspoken permission to leave, and returns to the living room, pulling a pair of shorts and a running t-shirt from his suitcase and changing in the bathroom before quietly exiting the apartment, wanting to stretch his legs and explore his new surroundings a bit. Winston is his faithful shadow, and it’s only been a few days but Neil’s already going to miss him when Will returns.

It’s definitely a relief for both of them to stretch their legs after the day in the car, and Palmetto isn’t a bad area to run in. Neil sticks to the more unpopulated areas out of personal preference, confident that Winston will spook off any opportunists— and just as confident in his own ability to deal with anyone who thinks to try anything anyway. He’s back at Wymack’s by half past six, giving him enough time to feed and brush Winston, shower and change into a pair of dark jeans, casual black leather oxfords and a pale blue buttoned shirt that went well with his eyes, according to his father and Madam Olivier.

A glance in the steamed up mirror, at the dark blur of his hair visible there, makes him frown slightly. He’d spent his childhood dying his hair, darkening it from red to an auburn so dark it was almost brown. It made him look more like Hannibal, which was somewhat vital considering he was supposed to be the man’s biological son, plus it also made him look less like his biological father. Considering the fact that the Moriyama crime family were Nathan Wesninski’s former close associates, continuing to darken it would be the more prudent thing to do— he didn’t want anyone who’d worked with Nathan to associate him with the man after watching Neil play. Despite the risks he's taking, he doesn't actually want the Moriyama's to know who he really is. That would be... inconvenient, to say the least.

Wymack’s waiting by the front door of the apartment when he exits the bathroom, clearly impatient to leave though he does raise an eyebrow. “You clean up good, kid,” he says and Neil smirks, quips;

“Fashion is the armour to survive the reality of everyday life.”

“And who said that one?” Wymack asks, seeming genuinely curious.

“My tailor once," Neil informs him. "Though she was quoting a famous American photographer at the time.” 

“And you think you’re going to need armour to survive dinner with some of your teammates and the team nurse?” Wymack looks equal parts amused and exasperated, and Neil doesn’t bother answering, just whistles for Winston and hopes for Wymack’s sake that the dinner actually does go well. He’s used to getting along with people he doesn’t like, or at least pretending to, but he won’t let himself be pushed around and his new teammates are going to need to learn that at some point. Besides, it’s probably better that they all iron out their differences before the term begins, anyway.

Wymack, apparently, reads some of that in his expression because his coach groans and mutters, “Christ, we’re fucked."

 

[link to Hannibal's sketch of "Achilles Lamenting the Death of Patroclus"](http://www.hanniballectermd.com/post/86053608421/hannibals-drawing-comes-from-the) 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, sorry for the hiatus everyone, I've been dealing with some shit. I'll be going back over the comments people posted for the last chapter and replying, so please don't think I've been ignoring you out of rudeness, I appreciate each and every bit of support, advice, feedback, etc. that people leave <3
> 
> I hope you enjoy the update! xxx

****II.** **

When Neil and Wymack arrive at Abby Winfield’s house, a small but pleasant single-story brick house, there’s a short blond figure out on the porch, a cigarette held loosely in his hand as he lounges against the outside brick wall.

“So, you decided to join the Foxes after all,” Andrew Minyard drawls to him in greeting, as he and the coach approach the front door. Dark grey ribbons of smoke curl from his slightly parted lips, curled up into a wide, mocking, very nearly unhinged-looking grin. In contrast to the manic smile, Andrew’s eyes are flat and empty-looking as they meet Neil’s. “What a pity.”

Neil narrows his eyes slightly and, at his side, Winston growls, a deep, threatening sound that manages to snag the more vicious of the Minyard twins’ attention, a brief flicker of something evident for half a breath in those hollowed out eyes. “I see you brought a guard dog,” Andrew notes, still with that lazy drawl, and Neil shrugs.

“Day gets to bring his everywhere, I didn’t see why I couldn’t do the same.”

“Oh, _for Christ’s sake_ — Andrew, Neil!” Wymack snaps out their names warningly, fixing them both with a fierce look. “This is Abby’s house, which she’s opened up to you both, and I expect you to respect it and respect her– understood?”

“Sorry coach,” Neil says, with a look of faux-contrition that he knows everyone present can see straight through in a heartbeat, “hypocrisy annoys me. It’s _rude_.”

Fucking hell,” Wymack mutters with a long-suffering expression before turning to Andrew. “The dog’s not his, it’s a temporary addition.”

“He belongs to a friend,” Neil elaborates. “I’m looking after him while they’re away. Don’t try to touch either of us unless we approach you and there won’t be any problems.”

“You might want to explain that to Nicky,” Wymack sighs and Neil nods, before following Wymack past the smoking blond and into the house as the coach lets them in, calling out a greeting to the team’s nurse as he does so.

Abby Winfield hurries out to the front room to meet them, greeting Wymack with a friendly kiss to the cheek before turning to him and beaming. “You must be Neil— and Winston, is it?” Her voice rises slightly in query as she glances down at Winston and when Neil nods, her beaming smile widens even further. “Well, I'm Abby, the nurse for the team and temporary landlord for Andrew, Kevin, Aaron, and Nicky. They're not harassing you too much, are they?"

“I’ve only met Andrew Minyard and Day so far,” Neil replies. Going by Winfield’s wince, this isn’t even slightly reassuring to her.

"No worries," Andrew says, having followed them into the house. "He'll actually take work to break, I think. Give me until August, maybe."

Winfield immediately swells up in outrage, anger clouding her face. "Andrew Minyard, if you dare give us a repeat of last year—"

"Then Bee will be here to pick the pieces up," Andrew interrupts. "She did so well with Matt, didn't she? Neil won't even be a blink on her radar. You did invite her over, didn't you?"

Winfield frowns disapprovingly, but apparently decides against starting an argument. "I invited her, but she declined. She thought it would make things awkward."

"Things aren't anything but awkward when Andrew and Nicky are around," Wymack mutters.

Andrew doesn’t even try to defend his honour but looks at Neil. "Bee's a shrink. Used to work in the juvie system, but now she's here. She deals with the really serious cases on campus: suicide watch, budding psychopaths, that sort of thing. That makes her our designated handler. You'll meet her in August.”

“It's mandatory once a semester for athletes," Winfield adds. "The first time is a casual meet-and-greet so you get to know her and find out where her office is. The second session is in spring. Of course, you're free to visit her any time you like, and she'll talk to you more about scheduling while you're there. Counselling services are included in your tuition, so you might as well make use of it.”

“That’s good to know, but it’s unnecessary,” Neil tells her, his skin prickling slightly with discomfort— his ‘person-suit’ is excellent, he knows it is, but past experience and knowledge of Hannibal’s less then exemplary medical practice has taught him that it’s not flawless, particularly not to those trained to identify such things— he has very little desire to go visit a psychiatrist whose work includes ‘budding psychopaths’, even if ‘budding’ doesn’t apply to him at all (nor ‘psychopath’, if he wanted to get technical). “I already see a psychiatrist, who I have an established relationship with.” He tells Winfield. “Anything Dr. Dobson’s required to know, I’ll give my psychiatrist permission to discuss with her.”

Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier hasn’t actually officially been his psychiatrist since before he’d gone into WITSEC, but she provided a good immediate excuse and he’s fairly certain that pressing the right buttons with Wymack, or even Kassmeyer— those buttons being “trauma” and an “inability to trust a psychiatrist after his father, a psychiatrist, turned out to be a cannibalistic serial killer”— will get him out of the ‘compulsory’ visit.

Winfield looks slightly flustered, apparently not quite sure what to say, or what the policies are regarding what he’s proposed. “I, ah, I’ll pass that on to Betsy.” She says, before hastily leading them through, deeper into her house. Neil follows her as she leads him to the dining area, where the other Minyard twin, Kevin Day and Nicholas Hemmick are all waiting. He knows their faces from researching the Foxes online, but meeting someone in person is different from watching them talk in an interview. Or not talk, in Andrew Minyard’s case.

Expression aside, Aaron Minyard looks nearly exactly like Andrew— short, pale, and blond— with differences so minor most wouldn’t even notice, even when the two stood next to each other, the most noteworthy being how Andrew’s build had more muscle to it, but the right clothes could hide that.

In contrast, Nicholas Hemmick is tall with jet-black hair, dark brown eyes and skin two shades too dark to be a tan. He’s also quick to approach, jumping to his feet and hurrying over, barely able to drag his dark, excited doe-eyes, all wide and round and long-lashed, away from Winston.

"Hi," he greets Neil enthusiastically, holding out his hand for a handshake that Neil accepts. He has sweaty palms and a tight grip, but he doesn’t try any of those stupid, dominating handshake tricks, which Neil always considers a point in anyone’s favour. Shaking hands with people is meant to symbolise both parties are on equal grounds, it’s just plain  _rude_ when people attempt to make it otherwise. "Welcome to South Carolina!” Hemmick continues, all cheerful and excited. “I’m Nicky, Andrew and Aaron’s cousin, backliner extraordinaire! I heard you decided to drive, instead of flying. Why the heck would you do that? Road trips are the worst!”

Neil blinks at the sudden influx of chatter, before shrugging slightly. Hemmick is enthusiastic, but he seems genuine, at least. There’s no reason to alienate him now, but because he doesn’t seem to need to breathe between sentences.

“I like my car,” Neil says simply. “And it’s easier to travel by car with a dog then by plane.”

Hemmick’s face lights up at the mention of Winston, his full attention turning unashamedly to the mutt. “Aww, and aren’t you just the most precious puppy there is!” he coos as he crouches down in front of Winston, offering the dog the back of his hand.

“Not quite a puppy anymore,” Neil says dryly, ready to tell Hemmick to back off if Winston doesn’t like him. The fact that Hemmick got down on Winston’s level, though, and offered him his hand to smell instead of immediately trying to pat him makes him think that Winston will like the older boy— despite what his babbling might suggest, Hemmick apparently isn’t an idiot. Or he at least knows dogs.

Winston eyes Hemmick in a considering manner, leaning forward to sniff Hemmick’s hand then apparently deciding that Hemmick was acceptable, nudging his wet nose against Hemmick’s hand.

“Does that mean I can pat him?” Hemmick asks hopefully. Wymack looks a bit nervous and Andrew Minyard’s watching with focused eyes, but Neil nods.

“He’s given you his stamp of approval. At least for today.” He says, and Hemmick immediately starts to scratch behind Winston’s ears, much to the mutt’s clear pleasure. Confident that Winston’s accepted Hemmick, Neil turns his attention to the only person in the room he hasn’t been introduced to. Aaron Minyard looks like he just stood in one of Winston’s offerings, his expression is just that sour. Neil doesn’t even bother with a greeting, just nods in the twin’s direction and holds back the eye-roll at the scowl he gets in return.

Winfield gives Aaron a stern look before turning back to him, giving a hopeful smile. “Dinner’s on the table, I may have gone slightly overboard, so I hope you’re hungry, Neil,” she says brightly and Neil smiles back at her, wide enough to show a flash of teeth.

“Absolutely starving,” he says. “I’d kill for something to eat.”

Wymack chokes, and Neil‘s grin widens further. “Sorry,” he murmurs as he brushes past the coach, over to the already set table he can see through the set of open doors, “gallows humour, you know? It’s a coping strategy, though I understand it can be hard to stomach.”

“You’re a little shit, aren’t you?” Wymack grumbles, but there’s a hint of wry humour in his eyes.

“Absolutely,” Neil confirms, and Wymack sighs.

The conversation dies off as everyone settles and serves up what they want, but it starts up again as they dug into chunks of steaming lasagne. Neil mostly stays quiet, more interested in seeing the way the others interact— you can learn a lot about people that way. From time to time the table splits as Kevin and Wymack get caught up talking about spring training and recruits at other schools and Hemmick regales the other half of the table with gossip about movies and celebrities. Andrew mostly watches Day and Wymack, but doesn’t contribute to the conversation, instead humming to himself and pushing his food around his plate.

Hannibal would be horrified by the disrespect to the food, but Neil’s feeling slightly more charitable towards everyone after the meal. Good food has a tendency to do that for him– “After a good dinner one can forgive anybody” Oscar Wilde had written once, and Neil almost agrees, even though, of course, the eye of the storm can’t last forever.

“This was delicious,” he tells Winfield, not completely honest but being polite anyway. Compared to the feasts his father lovingly prepared, the lasagne is good but nothing particularly special, but not everybody can be as dedicated to the culinary crafts as his father— and most would argue that not everybody _should_.

“Thank you, Neil,” Winfield says with a bright smile. “I love cooking for the team.”

“I love cooking too,” he tells her, this time with complete sincerity, before turning slightly in place to face Wymack. “Coach, would it be okay if I used your kitchen to make something for Ms Winfield for dinner tomorrow as thanks?”

“Oh, please, call me Abby,” Winfield immediately says, at the same time as Wymack replies.

“Only if you make something for me, too,” he bargains, and Neil is slightly surprised Wymack would want to eat something cooked for him by a cannibal’s kid, but he supposes Wymack must hold himself to some principle or other about not judging children by their parents— it would fit his general personality.

“You’ll be training hard tomorrow,” Day informs him, light green eyes narrowed, “you won’t have the time or the energy for things like cooking.”

Neil snorts slightly at that, and at the sudden look of self-deprecating contrition on Winfield’s face, like the nurse believes that by accepting his polite invitation she’d unthinkingly burdened him and is horrified at herself. Bleeding hearts, her and Wymack both.

“Day,” he says, amused, “one of the very nicest things about life is the way we must regularly stop whatever it is we are doing and devote our attention to eating.” Seeing Wymack’s quirked eyebrow, he elaborates, “Luciano Pavarotti,” and watches the coach nod, a look of interest on his face, before turning back to the now-scowling Kevin Day. He can almost appreciate what was probably genuine advice from Day, except for the insult the other boy implied. “The day I’m too tired to cook, is the day I’m dead and buried, or stuck in the hospital in a coma. I can always make something quick and simple but still delicious— and I’m good at it too. I considered enrolling in the Bachelor of Professional Studies Culinary Science at the Culinary Institute of America before you showed up at Millport.”

Actually, he’d been considering it before his father had been revealed to be a cannibal and had immediately known that he’d never flourish in the culinary industry— all it would take would be one reporter finding out his true identity and nobody would ever eat anything he’d cooked again. Unless they were Wymack, apparently. But still, it helps make his point.

“Do we get an invite?” Hemmick asks eagerly, his soft, long-lashed doe eyes bright with hopeful excitement. Neil’s immediate response is ‘no’, but after seeing how Winston’s furry head is still resting on Hemmick’s knee, where it’s been most of dinner, well, Winston is a good judge of character. And incessant chattering aside, Hemmick isn’t actually that bad.

“You can come,” he tells the older boy. “You’re actually tolerable.”

Hemmick’s face lights up before his shoulders tense, his eyes darting over to an impassive Andrew Minyard. “Uh, I, er–“ he stammers, but Winfield interjects before Andrew, the clear alpha personality of the group, can announce his ruling on the matter.

“I’ll give you a lift, Nicky,” she says, fixing a firm gaze on Andrew, who goes very still before turning his head slightly to grin at Neil. It’s not even remotely friendly, closer to a snarl.

Neil smiles back, all teeth and spite.

“So, what are you studying, Neil?” Winfield speaks in a voice a touch too loud for the table, and Neil willingly turns away from the silent challenge, back over to her and her slightly strained smile.

“I’m majoring in Mathematics, and minoring in Foreign Languages,” he tells her, and she looks impressed and a bit concerned.

“That sounds very full on, especially with all the Exy practice and games too,” she says.

“I like pushing myself,” Neil answers, honestly enough. “And both maths and languages come easy to me, languages in particular. I grew up in a relatively multilingual household, I have relatives who I only speak—” or _spoke_ , past tense, in Murusaki- _baa-chan_ ’s case— “to in their native languages, and I used to travel overseas at least once a year to visit them, so I picked things up.”

Hannibal had enjoyed speaking Lithuanian the privacy of their home, and he’d considered it a point of pride that Neil be fluent in the language. Neil also started learning French and Japanese in extra lessons outside of primary school to impress Murusaki- _baa-chan_ , and he later picked up German in high school, the other options offered having been Japanese or Latin, and the Japanese classes offered were too basic and he’d had very little interest in learning a dead language.

As Neil smiles politely at the interested Winfield, he wonders if anyone at the table noticed how he never specified which languages he knew. His _tėvas_ taught him not to offer up unnecessary information, or give away possible advantages, and that’s a rule (or more of a guideline, really) that he’s happy to follow.

The tense atmosphere remains during the rest of dinner and dessert, despite Winfield’s best efforts, and Neil is only too happy for it to end. It’s after he’s said goodbye to the team nurse, Hemmick, Day and the Minyards, and he’s waiting out the front for Winfield and Wymack to finish up their own private good-bye (which he suspects involves a lot more intimate body contact than his own farewell from Winfield) when Andrew Minyard joins him outside, an already-lit cigarette in his hand.

He doesn’t get close, the way Winston’s hackles immediately rise ensure that, but there’s an unmistakable threat in his eyes, his 'smile', and the way he’s holding his body.

“You know, Abby threatened to revoke our stadium rights for the summer if we break you,” he drawls.

“Because I’m sure you’d consider that such a tragedy,” Neil says with a huff— Andrew cares about Exy about as much as he does.

“Oh, but Kevin would cry, and we just can’t have that,” Andrew counters. “But we can just wait until June, because once everyone’s here Abby will have too many other Foxes with their accompanying tragic sob-stories to fuss over. Then we’ll throw you a welcome party you won’t forget.”

Neil’s reasonably certain that any normal person being so obviously threatened by psychotic midget with a well-known reputation for violence would be afraid, or angry, but Neil’s not normal, and he’s never felt the need to try to be, and all he really feels in the face of such blatant threats is a sense of building anticipation— Millport was boring, but Palmetto is promising to be anything but, and _he can’t wait_. 

+

Will isn’t sure what he’d been expecting when he’d followed the tip Mischa had given him, but he did know he hadn’t been at all prepared for what he’d found— even though he really should have been. Mischa is a lot more like Hannibal then anyone seems to realise— Hannibal and Mischa included.

The ‘Chiyoh’ from Mischa’s text ‘ _CHIYOH, LECTER ESTATE, LITHUANIA’_ had been easy to find; the beautiful, elegant Japanese woman definitely wasn’t what, or _who_ , he’d been expecting for, but he’d very quickly understood why Mischa had sent him to her— and once he’d explained that it was Mischa who’d pointed him in her direction, Chiyoh had lost a great deal of her icy defensiveness, a look of fondness replacing it. What she’d then told him had been eye-opening, and in a way he hadn’t quite been expecting, or prepared himself for. Several more pieces of the puzzle named ‘Hannibal Lecter’ had slid into place, and with them a growing understanding of the man (though he can’t imagine what it must have been like for poor Mischa, learning what had happened to his aunt, his namesake).

Childhood trauma is very standard for serial killers, it shouldn’t have surprised Will so much to realise how it had shaped (twisted) Hannibal’s psyche, but it did. Hannibal has just always seemed so... _above_ emotional responses as pedestrian as _trauma_. Or maybe that’s just Will’s empathy at work, seeing Hannibal as the man sees himself– there’s no doubting Hannibal’s god complex, after all.

He’d always pictured Hannibal’s background as a privileged one; the truth, that of a childhood of constant near-starvation, tragic loss and rampant abuse in communist-ruled Lithuania, is chilling and it humanises the monster, making Hannibal an object for sympathy and sorrow— which, Will knows without a doubt, was Mischa’s intentions entirely when the boy had sent him to Chiyoh.

Hannibal has always seemed so above of humanity, has always both held and imagined himself as so, and learning of the man behind the madness, of the traumatised orphaned brother behind the murderer, has forced Will to confront the truth behind everything— that Hannibal is just as stupid, fallible and pathetically  _human_ as the rest of them.

“I hate you a little bit right now,” he mutters aloud, to either Hannibal or Mischa, he’s not sure. He doesn’t dwell on it, though— he’s got an estate to explore and a woman to continue prying information from. He’ll have come to terms with this new image of an all-too-human Hannibal Lecter later.


End file.
